


A Warning Sign

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Black and White Days [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Romano came to visit Spain's house after leaving it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Warning Sign

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ August 8, 2009. 
> 
> A sequel to "Black and White Days".

“Shit.” He cursed, spat at the ground and shuffled uneasily, frowning deeply until the worry etched lines into his face. “What am I doing here?”  
  
He told himself he was only there for diplomacy’s sake, nothing more. It wasn’t as if he missed the bastard or anything. He was just bored. No, really. His house was boring and uneventful. His brother was off being his regular stupid, sparkly self, and he hated talking to neighbors and trading partners—let someone else deal with that. Boring. Not that the bastard’s house was any better, but the trip there had nice enough scenery to look at. Maybe.  
  
He walked through distantly familiar streets, feeling strangely at home and strangely not. He shook his head, told himself that he was just being dumb. He made his way up the hill, up the streets, ignoring the people speaking Spanish around them (three hundred years and he still wasn’t fluent) and heading towards the solitary house on the top of the hill, with the Spanish flag curling in the wind, and plants decorating the window.  
  
“Shit,” he said again, standing in the front yard and wondering just what the hell he was doing here. Diplomacy. Right. That was it.  
  
He was still justifying coming to Spain’s house when he knocked on his door. His hands were shaking, so Romano crossed his arms, glaring at his feet and feeling his face turn red, already envisioning how the moron would react upon seeing him (it’d involve stupid pet names and hugs, undoubtedly). He must be a masochist, to be doing this. He didn’t want to do this at all (Really). He kicked the door for good measure, frowning.  
  
It felt strange, to just knock and not walk right in. This was his home for three hundred years, and it still looked just as if had before. And the idiot probably wasn’t taking care of it (not that he ever had). It needed a new coat of paint, needed to have the windows cleaned, and the front stoop would probably be appreciative of some sweeping. He kicked at some of the dust, watched it swirl around before settling back down contently on Spain’s doorstep. Damn it.  
  
He glanced at the door, waited for it to open, but nothing happened. His frown deepened. He waited, taking a few steps back and glaring at the door—why wasn’t the moron opening the door faster, damn it?—daring it to just fly open on its own and be done with it.  
  
“Shit,” he said for the third time.  
  
With growing impatience, he knocked again, louder, and stood with his face coloring in anger. He nearly knocked the door down in his vigor to make sure the stupid Spanish moron actually heard him this time. He was already forming a rant in his head about how the Spanish bastard needed to get his ears checked or _something._  
  
“Shit,” he cursed for the fourth time that afternoon, then threw out some more profanity in the name of the Spanish bastard.  
  
The idiot should have flung the door open. Romano would have said hello (or: “Bastard, what took you?”) and that would have been that. He very much disapproved of this idiot’s laziness and lack of ambition. He tapped his foot anxiously in the dirt and continued to denounce the bastard with all his energy and all his being and all his heart (… … … maybe not that last one). He hadn’t written ahead or announced he’d be visiting—wait, wait—it wasn’t a visit, it was just making sure the moron hadn’t accidentally killed himself, and he wasn’t doing it out of _concern_ , just that he didn’t want his corpse’s rotting stench to float across the sea and accost his own house! So, what, he wasn’t here? How dare that moron have a social life! Or maybe he was sleeping in again. Romano squinted at the window on the top level, trying to see if he could make out Spain’s stupid, sleeping body.  
  
He stood there, glaring at the sky and cursing all things Spanish, hands curling into fists and face a vivid red with one throbbing vein on his forehead. He huffed, sucked in a sharp intake of air and started mentally killing the asshole, stacking up the creative ways to maim him in the back of his mind for safekeeping. He was so busy raging at himself that he almost missed when approaching footsteps alerted Romano that he was no longer alone.  
  
“Oh!” a voice, an all too familiar, infuriating voice, gasped behind him. Romano turned around, looking over his shoulder. Spain stood, holding a basket full of vegetables. His shirt was wrinkled and partially unbuttoned unnecessarily, with pants that seemed dirty and too tight— _oh what the hell, why was he noticing that?_ —and he was staring straight at Romano, in shock.  
  
“It’s about time you got here, bastard.”  
  
Spain said nothing for a long moment, staring at Romano as if disbelieving what he was seeing. His grip on the basket of vegetables tightened, where it balanced precariously against his hip. His mouth flopped open before snapping shut.  
  
“Romano…?” Spain asked in amazement. “Is that you?”  
  
Before Romano could bite out the “of course it’s me, you cretin,” Spain threw his basket aside and was running towards him, face still visibly shocked. Romano’s eyebrows furrowed and he was about to say something when Spain’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Pinned to Spain’s chest, Romano sputtered as Spain buried his head into Romano’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just held Romano tightly against him.  
  
Flabbergasted, Romano stood in petrified shock for several moments, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. That… hadn’t been the reaction he’d expected. He’d expected the man’s eyes to sparkle obnoxiously and for him to shout stupid pet names and laugh at him. He hadn’t been delusional enough to think there wouldn’t be a hug, but this hug was unlike what he’d thought it’d be. Spain said nothing, there was no teasing, no stupidity, no nothing. Just silently holding him, with his face buried against the curve between Romano’s shoulder and neck.  
  
The young Italian was about to shout at him before Spain lifted his head, pressing his face into Romano’s hair and holding fast, still not saying anything. The arms wrapped around him pressed against his back, moved over his shoulder blades and down his spine, as if mapping it for future reference. He could hear Spain breathing somewhere near his ear, could feel his jaw move as he swallowed, struggling over words just as much as Romano was.  
  
“It is you,” Spain whispered softly into his ear and Romano felt his face turn warm as he looked away, feeling foolish for not realizing how much the idiot must have missed him. He stood there, unsure how to react, torn between liking it (he did _not_ ) and just letting the moron do what he wanted. Damn it.  
  
“… ‘Course it’s me, you dumbass,” Romano muttered, and shoved half-heartedly at him. “Who the fuck else would it be?”  
  
Spain pulled back to look at him and Romano was nearly floored by the other man’s expression, soft and appreciative. He smiled very lightly at Romano, so much that for Spain, it wasn’t a _smile_ , just a slight curving of lips. His eyes were soft, warm, glowing in the afternoon sun. Romano wasn’t sure what to say.  
  
But as quickly as he’d seen that expression it rippled away and was replaced with an ear-to-ear grin, and the inquisitively thankful expression on Spain’s face became one of dopey stupidity, his default expression. His arms remained around Romano but now Spain was nuzzling his cheek against Romano’s, squeezing him and cooing. Romano shoved valiantly against Spain, with all his strength.  
  
“Romanooo,” Spain sighed, happily tightening his hold on Romano, clinging. “You came to visit me!”  
  
“I did not,” Romano protested, still shoving against Spain’s chest. He hated himself for blushing and sputtering.  
  
“Eh? Really?” Spain asked blankly, looking puzzled and blinking a few times but by no means loosening his death grip on Romano. Damn it. “Why are you here, then?”  
  
“I was just passing through. Obviously!” he shouted, still trying to squeeze away from Spain.  
  
“To where?”  
  
“Uh…” Romano hesitated, then thought fast, “Portugal.”  
  
Spain stared down at him a moment, frowning thoughtfully, before tightening and holding him close against his own body. “Stay a while before you go, then,” he offered. “Like old times.”  
  
 _Idiot_ , Romano thought, and somehow couldn’t banish from his mind’s eye that look of utter longing and happiness he’d seen on Spain’s face when he’d first seen Romano again. He couldn’t shake the look in his eyes at that, and because of that (really, the only reason, he just felt sorry for the guy!) he let himself be held, stoic and grumbling profanities to himself.  
  
“Fine.” He looked away. He felt himself soften, go lax in Spain’s arms.  
  
Spain grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners and looking so stupidly _happy_ that Romano wanted to hit the moron. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!  
  
Spain tugged him towards his basket, picking up the discarded vegetables, keeping one arm around Romano’s waist, keeping him close to his side. Romano said nothing and kept his arms crossed as Spain knelt to retrieve the vegetables he’d so carelessly thrown aside, humming softly to himself and smiling with his entire face and eyes. When he stood, the basket went back to his position on his hip, balanced hazardously while his hold on Romano remained tight and kept the other nation plastered to his hip. Romano looked up at him, frowning, and Spain returned his look with a wide smile. Romano had to look away, scoffing and muttering something about stupid idiots under his breath.  
  
Spain said nothing more. He ushered the other nation inside, and it was foreign in its familiarity. It seemed emptier than usual. Romano looked around, remembering again the nooks and crannies of Spain’s home. How distant it all felt, and yet he felt strangely at home, by Spain’s side and striding down Spain’s halls. He shook his head. No. No, this was not his home. He shouldn’t feel so comfortable with the moron manhandling him. Really.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Spain chattered away, grinning inanely. “It’s been a while, huh? It’s so strange, still, for me to have such an empty house, ya know?”  
  
“Hmph, whatever,” Romano muttered, face growing redder still.  
  
“Would you like something to eat? I have fresh vegetables. I could make pasta!”  
  
Romano’s frown deepened, and he wondered if he should be taken aback by how easily they fell back into the usual routine, how natural it felt. Not that he cared or anything.  
  
“… Just don’t mess it up, idiot,” Romano conceded.  
  
“I definitely won’t,” Spain chirped.  
  
He set to work, rolling up his sleeves and unloading the vegetables to make a sauce for him. Humming happily to himself and pausing in his work so that he could beam at Romano, the other nation sat, motionless, trying to convince himself that he was not staring nor was he happy to be there. The Italian rolled his eyes and huffed, avoiding eye contact whenever he could, trying to banish that god damned needy look he’d seen before. He hated the way it played with his heart—bastard, he probably planned it that way—and it was getting increasingly harder to say that it was just because he was bored that he was here. (But then again, had he been convinced at all, ever?)  
  
When he finished, and the kitchen was filled the delicious smells of Spanish cooking, Romano shifted, sitting up a bit straighter and trying not to betray how hungry he actually felt (it was a long way between houses, damn it). Spain portioned a hefty serving for Romano and swept towards him, balancing the plate in his hand and planting the other hand on the back of Romano’s chair. Sweeping out from behind Romano’s back, Spain set the plate down in front of him. And then, because he was in the perfect position to do so, draped his arms over Romano’s shoulders and rested his chest against the other nation’s back. Romano felt Spain nuzzle the back of his head, felt smiling lips grazing the back of his neck, nose bumping against the shell of his ear. Romano picked up his fork and jabbed his elbow into Spain’s gut, and twisted. Spain recoiled but the arms hugging him remained.  
  
“Is it good?” Spain asked him after a thoughtful pause, punctuated by Romano eating and Spain nuzzling.  
  
“Shut up,” Romano muttered, face red because yes, it was rather good. “Go away.”  
  
Spain laughed, and he almost managed to make it sound less ecstatic than he actually was. His wide grin gave him away instantly, though. Spain snuggled him closer. Romano struggled but his need for food overpowered his need to get Spain away from him—he could hardly breathe, god damn it—and he ate in red-faced silence.  
  
The food really was good. It was just as good as he remembered. Not that he would ever admit it out loud.  
  
(Maybe he missed him a little… maybe.)  
  
“When’s Portugal expecting you?” Spain asked once Romano finished.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Romano muttered in reply, face red. His lips twitched, threatened something that could have been a smile, but he suppressed it before Spain could notice. He watched Spain collect the dirty dishes and munch on the extra vegetables left over, licking up tomato juice from his fingertips as he looked out the window. He turned back towards Romano when he was insulted, and gave him that same dopey look he always wore. He laughed, and it almost sounded hesitant.  
  
Really, there was no helping it. Romano sighed, and perhaps deep, deep, deeeeeeep down inside he could admit to himself that maybe he’d missed this idiot, and maybe, just maybe, he was happy to see him. Not that he would ever admit it—if it were true. This was all hypothetical, of course.  
  
The smile Romano felt tugging at his lips wouldn’t have been a smile on anyone else, but on Romano’s face, it was. Surprisingly soft and gentle, for someone so crass and loud. Romano felt embarrassed, but knew the moron wouldn’t notice—he was excessively dense.  
  
When Spain glanced back at Romano, however, he nearly fell over. “Oh my god!”  
  
“What?” Romano asked, alarmed as Spain practically floated to him, shouting out his stupid Spanish pet names that Romano never understood but was intrinsically annoyed by regardless. Spain latched on to him and Romano shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you, you moron!?”  
  
“Your curl is in the shape of a heart!” Spain gushed, then reached up and tugged on the said heart shaped curl. “So cuuuute!”  
  
The reaction from the tug was instant and explosive:  
  
“It hasn’t been so long that you could have forgotten you _don’t touch me there_ ,” Romano shouted and punctuated this assertion with a well-aimed headbutt to Spain’s stomach.  
  
Spain gasped in pain and crumbled against Romano. The Italian grunted, but supported his weight. He could have just dropped him but then the bastard would have whined. It wasn’t as if he cared.  
  
“So cute,” Spain wheezed, breathing heavily against Romano’s neck. Spain laughed a low, throaty laugh, wafting against Romano’s neck. “Oh…” he sighed. Romano’s blush increased and Spain squeezed him close, murmuring, “I’ve missed you…”  
  
Romano stiffened and knew this was true, but it was strange to just hear it like that. It didn’t sound like a dopey proclamation, but, much like the earlier look he’d received from the Spaniard, sounded regretful and thankful and happy and sad all at once. Spain held onto him, resting against him and breathing the same air he was breathing. Spain held him close, fingers curling into his hair momentarily before dropping away to settle on the small of Romano’s back, nuzzling against him and laughing low in his throat.  
  
Romano grunted and the only reason he didn’t shove Spain away was because he was tired and it was easier just to let the moron get bored. No, really. Damn it.  
  
“Tch,” he scoffed, looking away and biting back the _me too_ that attempted to betray him. His rested his hands awkwardly on Spain’s hips, because he wasn’t sure what else to do.  
  
“Stay with me for a while?” Spain asked as he pulled away, smiling fondly and brushing his hand over Romano’s cheek, who very expertly swatted it away, thankful for something with which to occupy his hands.  
  
“Idiot,” Romano muttered, closing his eyes. He stayed there with him, only because he felt sorry for the lonely loser. Really.


End file.
